


Yours

by Livinei



Category: Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao
Genre: M/M, anyway comments are appreciated!! <3, literally just fluff because that's fucking all i write, no final proofreading because i've seen these fucking words so many times, they have lost all meaning i physically cannot look at them anymore, this is officially the longest fic i've ever written. i know don't laugh i dont do writing regularly, you: "you're overusing italics". me (in italics): "i don't know what you're talking about"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 06:19:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14847401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Livinei/pseuds/Livinei
Summary: Mozart is out at the brink of night, having underestimated how cold a person with insufficient clothing can get during a storm, Salieri gets an unexpected visitor and eventually ends up with one less hoodie, Francesco is having the time of his life.





	Yours

**Author's Note:**

> so the previous fic had a storm theme as well, which stuck with me and so i did a little different take on it, in which mozart does not make the smart decision of staying the fuck inside

Coming outside tonight was the stupidest mistake he’d made this month, Mozart decided as he jogged through the downpour, desperately tugging the soaked jacket closer to his body. The rain was so heavy it was difficult to see through it, and the evening darkness didn’t help. The yellow glow of the streetlights was vaguely blurring through it, and if Wolfgang hadn’t been currently freezing to death, he’d have thought it was pretty, very picturesque. But the shrill wind pierced through his flesh and made the rain hit his face with such force it felt like cold, icy rocks, and there was nothing picturesque about  _that_.

Why on earth did he think this would be a smart thing to do?! What convinced him that the more than half-hour trek home through a storm like this with just a sweatshirt and a jean jacket on would be a piece of cake? He should have just spent the night at the studio. Sure, the couch there was hard on the back but it surely beat drowning on the 11th Boulevard. But it was too late to turn back now, and he still had about 15 minutes before he’d get home. 

“If I  _live_  that long,” he mumbled to himself, barely noticing when the wind tore the soaked-though hood off his head, because most of his body had started turning numb at this point and the hood didn’t make that much of a difference. Nevertheless, he tugged it back on, and was about to turn his eyes down again when something blue in a close distance made him squint through the rain, and a street sign with a familiar name came into view. 

Salieri lived next street down from that, he realized. And without a conscious decision on his part, Mozart found himself trudging in that direction. If it was a choice between going a quarter of an hour through this hell anyways or taking a little detour on the chance that Salieri was home and would let him in, it wasn’t really a choice.  _And it’s like 11 o’clock, why wouldn’t he be home?_ Sure, there was a chance he would already be asleep, but if Wolfgang knocked loud enough…

He was right, Salieri was home, and awake as the lit-up living room window seen from the street supplied. Mozart held down the doorbell – obnoxious, he knew, but at that moment he really couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Antonio got up and frowned as he made his way to the door.  _Who the hell would visit unannounced at this hour_ , he thought, throwing a critiquing glance at the clock as if it was somehow to blame, but every thought in his head halted as he opened the door and came face to face with a shivering Mozart who looked like he’d fallen into a river. 

“Hey. Please let me in, I will die out there,” he said as soon as he saw him, a weary smile appearing on his lips. Wordlessly, Antonio stepped aside.

“Stay there, or you’ll flood my whole apartment,” he replied as he found his voice again, closing and locking the door behind Mozart and going past him while Wolfgang obediently stayed where he was. 

“So what happened? Did you not  _see_ the raging storm outside? For how long were you out there?” Antonio called out as he fetched a selection of dry clothes from his drawer.

“Twenty minutes maybe? And I did see the storm, but I guess I underestimated it in the long run. Didn’t realize how much akin to winter swimming it would be,” Wolfgang answered, a hint of amusement audible in his voice but it was overshadowed by the clattering of his teeth. Antonio returned to find him on the same spot as before, and handed him the clothes. 

“Go and take a hot shower, the towels are on the top shelf. I’ll make you some tea in the meanwhile.” 

Wolfgang took the clothes, gaze lingering on Antonio’s for a second, and nodded, letting out a sigh that could have been conveying either relief, gratitude, or fatigue. Maybe all three. Maybe something more. Antonio decided not to dwell on it.

Wolfgang emerged from the bathroom 10 minutes later, dressed in a pair of grey sweatpants and a purple T-shirt that was just a little too big, and ignored the way Antonio’s scent on the clothes made his chest buzz. Unceremoniously plopping down on the sofa next to Antonio he accidentally ended up a little closer than would be standard – in fact, their sides were pretty much touching – but then discarded the thought about it. If Antonio felt uncomfortable, Mozart knew he would move away himself. But he didn’t, so Wolfgang reached for the steaming mug on the coffee table and melted back into the sofa backrest, pulling his legs up to sit cross-legged and knocking Antonio’s knee with his own in the process.

“Thanks for letting me in, you really did save my life,” Mozart said, giving Tonio a warm grin and raising the mug to his lips. He had some color back in his face now, Antonio noted with contentment, and smirked at his friend’s dramatics. 

“You weren’t going to die. Whether or not I saved you from pneumonia though, I guess we’ll see.” 

“I guess we will,” Mozart chuckled, but then fell quiet, his face taking on a troubled look. “By the way, don’t think you have to let me stay the night or anything. If you want, I can just go after I finish my tea and be out of your hair. I’m warm now, I can take 15 more minutes outside.”

By the look Salieri gave him, he might have as well grown a second head.

“Jesus– Generally I consider you a pretty smart person, you know. And then at certain moments you say things like this that make me wonder how you’ve stayed alive for so long,” Antonio said, eyeing him critically. At that, the younger man looked sheepish, at least. 

“So don’t be ridiculous, of course you can stay the night. Do you think your roommate would let me live if I let you go?”

Mozart laughed at that, and  _sweet Jesus_ , Antonio marveled at the sound. Hearing Mozart’s laughter was the opposite of rare – this being an understatement – and still it somehow managed to steal his breath every single time.

“Constanze would probably stitch your sleeves shut for a month. But I’d speak up for your behalf, then she’d maybe go for a week.” 

They fell into a comfortable silence. Wolfgang kept his eyes on the TV, glancing at Antonio from time to time, but the more time passed and the more sleepy he got the less he started paying attention to the television. Before long the roles had swapped, and he was mostly staring at Antonio while only occasionally sparing a glance at the TV, thoughts drowsy and slow. Well, maybe “staring” was a bit too active of a word. More like his eyes were resting on him as his mind went to wonder.

 _It would be so easy to lean into his side right now,_  Wolfgang thought. Unfairly easy. His impulse control wasn’t great even at the best of times, let alone when he was pretty much half-asleep. 

Antonio turned his head to look back at him then, looking a little surprised, a little caught off guard, but mostly just curious. Immediately Mozart realized why: he  _had_ leaned into Salieri’s side. He had half a mind to consider pulling away, but discovered that his body refused to move and obey him, and he abandoned the attempts pretty quickly. As their eyes met, Wolfgang’s were filled with sleepy, a little cautious and a little apologetic questioning look:  _uhh, sorry? is this okay?_ Antonio didn’t say anything, turning his eyes back to the TV screen, but after a moment Wolfgang felt an arm slide around his shoulder, silently giving him a green light to come closer, and Wolfgang released a small sigh as he nestled more comfortably against Antonio’s side, starting to drift off. Antonio’s body was warm, and Mozart could feel the slow and steady movements of his chest as he breathed, and the hand that started sluggishly combing through his damp locks, a little hesitant at first, was almost therapeutic.

_If all storms ended like this then I wouldn’t even care about getting pneumonia._

He wasn’t sure whether he thought it or said it out loud, but he  _was_  sure he didn’t imagine the hum of laughter that went through Antonio’s chest.

 

The next morning he woke up around 7 to a heavy head and a sore throat. There was a blanket over him, and no Antonio – though Wolfgang had a vague recollection of waking up in the middle of the night to a tangle of intertwined limbs and his face nuzzled into the crook of Antonio’s neck – but the living room was full of faint smell of fresh coffee. Wolfgang shuffled off of the couch and dragged his feet into the kitchen. Salieri looked up from where he was almost done frying eggs, and for a second, his eyes widened with several emotions at once. But the next moment the neutral expression was back on his face, leaving no time for Mozart to recognize any.

“Morning,” Salieri hummed, “Coffee?” Wolfgang gave a lazy salute, trying to put off speaking for as long as possible, and nodded gratefully. Antonio gave him another glance and this time, amusement was evident in his gaze.

“Nice hair,” he commented, eyes flickering up to Wolfgang’s undoubtedly unruly bedhead and that was when the preserving of Wolfgang’s voice ended. To be honest, one conversation turn was more that he had thought he’d accomplish.

“Haven’t you heard? Walking around as if the hairbrush hasn’t been invented yet is the latest fashion, you bully,” he retorted, the words painfully scratching his throat and sending him into a momentary coughing fit. A sympathetic glint slid over Antonio’s face as he turned off the stove and grabbed two plates.

“On second thought, maybe coffee isn’t the best idea.”

Mozart gave him the most serious glare he could muster.

“Unless you get a doctorate in medicine, don’t even think about it.” 

That earned him a half-hearted eye roll. 

“And how many sewn-shut sleeves would giving you coffee right now get me?” Antonio asked, pouring out the coffee anyways. Wolfgang smiled.

“None, if I say I threatened you. But what Constanze doesn't know can't hurt you.”

The breakfast was passed with little conversation - for obvious reason - but no uncomfortable silence, and neither of them were willing to think about how domestic this whole thing was. Not right now.

Afterwards, Mozart changed back into his own clothes that had been drying overnight, but pursed his lips when it became apparent his jacket was still damp. Staring at it accusingly, he tried to will away the heaviness of his head when Antonio tossed him a black hoodie. He caught it, looking at it in confusion for a moment before the realization finally reached him, and lightly shook his head.

“ _Oh_ , you really don’t have to, you’ve already done a lot.”

“I know I have. Take it and get out, don’t you have to meet with Da Ponte half past 8?”

“Shit, you’re right,” he pulled the sweatshirt over his head and rushed to the front door, pulling the sleeves up a little before slipping his boots on.

“I do want it back though,” Antonio called after him.

“Yeah, of course. And thank you!” Wolfgang beamed back at him from the doorway, making up for the raspiness of his voice, and sent a cheerful wave at Antonio before disappearing out the door.

 

He did not get it back. For the first few days he wondered sometimes, but let it go. Truth be told, it didn’t really matter all that much. Mozart probably forgot, airhead like he could be, and Antonio could live just fine with one less hoodie. Except a week after the Rain Incident, he saw Mozart wearing the hoodie again, its sleeves reaching down to his knuckles in a way that made him look tiny and definitely shouldn’t have been this endearing. If Salieri made a conscious decision not to ask it back, no one needed to know.   
 To be fair, Mozart really did intend to return it the day after it was given, he  _did_. He didn’t forget, how could he? Each time he saw the thing its rightful owner’s name rang in his mind, reminded him of the purple T-shirt, and the arm around his shoulder, and the warm body against his. No, he didn’t forget, he simply didn’t want to give it back, not yet. So if he made a decision to return it should Antonio ask for it but hold onto it until then, no one needed to know that either.

 

Antonio should have seen this coming. In fact, now that he thought about it, he was surprised it hadn’t come sooner.

 _“You gave him your hoodie,”_  Francesco said without bothering with a greeting, or a knock for that matter, barging into the apartment with an insufferable grin and making Antonio drop his guitar pick in surprise. His brother strode right into the room, sitting on the coffee table and facing him with an overjoyed look that Antonio had learned to dread.

“You-”

“I literally saw it on his person with my own two eyes. I thought,  _no way,_  so I went up to him and asked. And he  _confirmed_. Wolfgang Mozart is wearing your hoodie, which – knowing you – he was supposed to give back and which isn’t even his  _size_ , I’ll let you think about that for a moment.”

Francesco took a breath, obviously not intending to let Antonio think about anything by the way his eyes shone with delight. Tonio didn’t bother trying to say anything to explain, knowing it would be interrupted or overlooked and that all he could do was wait until Cesco was done. Sure enough, the man grinned and continued.

“And hey, that sweet soul is a lot more willing to talk than you are – in his defense, he was a little worried he’d fuck shit up for you if he told me, but I told him I wouldn’t torment you–”

“So you lied right into his face?”

“–so  _guess what else I found out,_  from  _him_  and not from  _you_ for some reason I totally and absolutely cannot fathom. Anyway, I wanna hear your version of the story.”

Antonio rolled his eyes, and understood it was time for him to talk now.

“I would have figured you’d be here days ago,” he said, shooting Francesco a subtle smirk, “seeing as it’s been more than a week since I gave him the hoodie and he had a meeting with your boyfriend the very same morning of getting it. What happened, getting rusty?” 

“Eh, he cares about Mozart, and Mozart cares about you, and you two are in this together and Lorenzo is too good of a person sometimes so by extension he gives a shit about you as well. Anyway, he didn’t tell me anything because he knew I’d come here and make your life miserable. Now spill.”

Figuring he had nothing to lose, Antonio sighed, and started talking. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t have a lot of interruptions. When Francesco wanted to, he was a great listener. 

When Antonio finished, Fran looked at him for a few seconds, then buried his face in his hands and a moment later his shoulders started shaking with uncontrollable laughter. Again, unsurprisingly.

“You–  _holy shit,_  okay, let me get this straight, as much as I can with something that has nothing straight about it. So the guy you’re in love with showed up on your doorstep in the middle of the night, dripping wet, wore your clothes, spent the night, fucking cuddled with you on the sofa – oh, and you also  _slept in each other’s arms,_  right? – stayed for breakfast, and stole your hoodie, actively wearing it days later. Listen, fratellino, you’re practically dating!” 

Antonio ushered him out of the apartment an hour later and immediately shoved the conversation into the backmost corners of his mind. 

 

It wasn’t until two weeks later that he and Mozart finally talked about it. Mozart was wearing the sweatshirt again, sleeves rolled up, and they were walking away from the practice room. Antonio glanced in his direction and the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Enjoying the hoodie?” 

Wolfgang looked at him, responding with an easy smile.

“Mm-hm. Want it back?” 

“It’s fine. I’m a bit curious though. Did you forget?” 

Wolfgang slowed his pace a little, and looked ahead, thoughtful. He could say he did. In a way, that would probably be easier. But he didn’t want to lie about this. And, did he even have anything to lie about? 

“No.” 

“…Then why?”  _Why keep it?_

Wolfgang gave a one-shouldered shrug, and, with surprise, he found that saying it was the simplest thing in the world. 

“Because it was yours.” 

And when Mozart’s fingers brushed against Antonio’s hand, lingering for a moment, Antonio finally didn’t shoo away the feelings it brought along.


End file.
